


All Thoughts Are Prey To Some Beast

by nigeltde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, First Time, M/M, PWP, Season 11 Episode 11, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5895625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to S11E11 Into the Mystic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Thoughts Are Prey To Some Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently hastily-written PWPs demand Bill Callahan titles.

“Hey man, you asleep?”

“No,” Sam says, after a moment. It's a lie. His voice is muffled and scratchy and it softens Dean's heart, pulls him the rest of the way into the room even as the weight of what he has to say puts lead in his steps. It's a strange heavy truth he has to tell and he doesn't understand it enough himself to know how to put it in context, to guard himself against all the turns the conversation could take.

Sam sits up and scrubs at his face, runs his hands through his hair. Dean looks around for a chair – there's one in the corner, but he can't face the scrape and bother and perches on the side of the mattress instead, feet on the floor. He picks at a loose thread in the blanket and Sam's bent knee knocks comfortingly against his spine. Dean's left the door open and the hall light is slanting dimly in. He's not looking at Sam but if he was Sam would be blinking and the light would hit his nose and cheekbones in a gentle way that he'd want to trace with his fingers. 

“Listen, there's something I should--” He stops, bites the inside of his lip, curses himself. Seemed like a good idea at the time but how many hours of absent sleep made that decision, and now he's here and he's thinking she doesn't deserve to be in this space, doesn't deserve to be in the same room as Sam.

Futile. She's there wherever he goes, piggybacking on Dean, her hair thick in his fingers, her bottomless eyes wide with pity, her ghostbreath on his lips. He feels obscurely guilty about it.

“You want a drink?” Sam says, after the silence stretches out painfully, obviously figuring he needs some Dutch courage. “I got some in the drawer I think.”

“Sure,” Dean says, but Sam doesn't move. He clears his throat instead.

“Thanks. For talking. Before,” he says quietly, and claps a hand on Dean's knee a couple of times and leaves it there. Dean can almost hear his mind drifting back into the past – Ruby, Amelia, Purgatory. That's Dean's fault. He showed his hurt too clearly way back when and now no matter what Dean says Sam'll hang on to that regret. 

Dean turns his face a little towards his brother and attempts a smile. It stretches his face wrong. He looks away again.

“You know, Mildred tried that move already.”

Huff of laughter and a grin in Sam's voice. “I'm amazed I got you out of there with your virtue intact.”

“That's up for debate.”

Sam squeezes his knee again in amusement. Dean stares down at his hand, fingers hot through his sweatpants, long; strong, like hers. Crazy that his brother reminds him of her; she was so cold, but she'd gripped his arms and he'd felt her touch like a burn, skin greedy for it. 

“Dean.” Sam is breathing funny and it makes Dean's name uncertain and vague.

“Hmm?”

“What you said about this being.... All we need.”

“Sam, I.” He doesn't know how to finish. They've been good, lately: stronger, closer, easily winning a smooth-run case, and that is all he needs, to have Sam with him whole and willing. It's all he's supposed to need. It was true. He'd meant it. It's just that there's something else now.

He shrugs, and rests his hand briefly over Sam's and feels Sam freeze behind him, so deathly still Dean gets a sudden choking premonition of danger, thick as swirling black smoke. 

When Sam speaks his voice is so hushed Dean can barely hear it past his own thumping heartbeat.

“Why were you vulnerable to that banshee, Dean?”

There's a knot in Dean's throat, twisted around her name. He should tell. It's what he came in here for. He's not going to have many chances before it becomes one of those crawling, skin-stretching secrets that chews them up. He swallows painfully and opens his mouth.

Sam's hand moves. It takes Dean a moment to realise he's shifted it up Dean's leg a fraction, thumb inching in on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. 

“Dean,” he says, on a breath, still so quiet, directed down at the bed somewhere behind Dean, tentative enough to set off some kind of protective spark in Dean, electric and pure and behind that is the bright thrill of relief, a way through. What he's got for his brother is just for them. She can't touch that.

“Yeah,” he says, a little shocky, a little distant. _You could never compare,_ he wants to tell her. He wishes she was here to see.

“Why were you vulnerable.”

Dean shakes his head free of her and his skin is jumping, buzzing under Sam's scant touch, Sam's knee digging into Dean's back and his hand light on Dean's leg, thumb moving almost absentmindedly. Dean's face burns, some kind of clamouring feeling pulling at his senses, twisting tight in his stomach.

“I told you.” He sounds hoarse to his own ears.

“You expect me to buy that overthinking bullshit?” Sam says, tough words with a shake under them Dean can hear clear as a bell.

“I--” he says, and feels Sam's hand tremble. His thighs fall apart a little of their own accord. Sam's breath hitches and his hand runs the rest of the way up, palming Dean entirely, soft noise of approval at finding Dean already thickening. 

“Is this okay?” He whispers and Dean swallows, nods, breath and mind both gone, as Sam starts to massage him through his sweats and boxers. Sam curves his fingers under the shape of his balls, runs the heel of his hand up his dick, stretches the cloth tight over the head, a treacherous sweet pressure.

“Yeah,” Dean gasps softly, and pushes up into it, lets Sam's hand remould him in slow careful strokes and it feels good, beyond-the-pale good, beyond all rational limits, beyond every careful boundary he set for himself. Dean does not think this is okay. She's going to know about this. Next time he sees her. She's going to know what he let happen.

Sam moves then, fast and easy, sets his huge hard body flush against Dean's back, his long legs bracketing Dean's. He hooks his feet around Dean's ankles and spreads Dean's legs further and Dean breathes deep and quaking and leans against him, so solid. Sam noses his hair, the back of his ear, and brings his other arm to wrap across Dean's chest, firm and strong. 

He starts working Dean more surely, still through his sweats. 

“Is this okay?” He asks again, and Dean nods again, automatic, and fists his hands in the sheets and can't suppress a whimper. Time was he was pretty much ready to kill himself for thinking about this; could only see sickness, banishment, exile. He wonders where that's gone. Maybe it's taken too long to get here. Maybe it's her.

She's going to know, this last, worst part of him. And she'll forgive him, that's the thing. She'll wipe away everything, all his sins. She loves him, or something like it. 

Sam is hard, rock hard and Dean hasn't even touched him. Dean can feel his erection pressed close against his back, and he shifts a little into it and Sam drops his head, breath damp on Dean's neck, his hand faltering, his hips rocking to get some movement for himself. Dean could bend forward, or turn it round somehow, get on his brother's lap. Maybe a good fuck would clear her away. Something brutal. 

Sam won't give him that. Not now. Another time. There'll be another time. The way Sam is holding him says that clear enough, the way he won't stop moving his lips against the skin he can get to and even in Dean's hair, like he can't get close enough, can't bear a molecule of distance. His clever fingers starting up again, bringing Dean all the way hard and then pulling him out from his sweats and boxers in one smooth stunning move, getting them skin to skin. Sam's not shy about smearing the precome down, using his thumb, and he knows Dean's tells, he figures Dean out in seconds, the twist that dissolves into pressure at the base, the dip and swirl around the head.

It's a huge feeling, too big for his chest, building in waves in his belly, firing along his nerves. He's sweating, can feel it starting to collect in the hollow of his throat; every breath seems close and humid, filling a too-small room, musty with the smell of sleep and arousal, no space, Sam like a cocoon around him. He thinks without meaning to of a wide valley and a clear lake and a fresh breeze and fear. Fear seems natural. 

She's in here with them. It makes him angry. He tips his head back onto Sam's shoulder, mouth open and Sam can read that too, bends and kisses him, deep and immediate and raw, the wet blistering heat of his mouth, and Dean brings a hand up, buries it in Sam's hair, too short, never dreamed he'd think his brother's hair was too short, and holds him in the kiss, desperate for the scrape of his teeth, the airless burn, the unknown, unimagined taste of him. Sam jerks him faster and groans into his mouth and it rumbles through Dean, kick his heart up even faster.

It's not enough.

It's not that he wants to fuck her. He does, he can't lie about it, he can't shake the curve of her waist under his hand as she'd kissed him, so barely, so lightly. But it's not fucking that's the thing. It's not love. It's being known. It's --

Recognition?

It couldn't be stronger with her. That's not what it is. How could it be, after everything he's done for Sam, who's currently running Dean's body like he was born for it?

Sam pulls back from the kiss and digs his chin into Dean's shoulder, looks down at Dean's lap. He drops his other hand to push Dean's sweatpants further down and massages the muscle of his thigh again, brushes the delicate skin of his balls, tender there and so insistent on his dick it drives Dean into a rhythm, thrusting up into the circle of Sam's hand.

“Like this?” Sam asks again, all in whispers, so quiet in here, Dean's breath dry and rasping in his own throat.

“Yeah, like that.” It's good, it's good. It's better than good. He's almost proud. “Is this how you do it for yourself Sammy?”

There's a long silence. Sam noses again at Dean, fitting his face against the shape of Dean's skull, breathing into the thin hair at the nape of Dean's neck. 

“Sometimes.”

He leaves Dean's balls and brings his hand up again in a slow firm caress that rucks up Dean's shirt; pauses to scrub gently over Dean's nipple with his blunt nails, and as Dean drops his mouth open in a shuddering moan shifts to grip Dean's jaw. His fingers are in Dean's mouth and his dick is so hot and hard at Dean's back and his voice is thin and desperate.

“The hunt. Today. That was good, right? We could be like that couldn't we?”

_Shut up, shut up,_ he thinks, despairing. He can't think about the future. He's increasingly certain it looks like her. He wraps his tongue around Sam's fingers, closes his lips.

Sam's chest expands behind him, hips jerking to rub his dick along Dean's back in a constrained, aborted rhythm. He groans something that might have Dean's name in it, vibrating like it comes straight from his body, never made it into the air and mouths messily along the corner of Dean's jaw, nips at his earlobe. His hand on Dean's dick doesn't stop, perfect, reliable. 

Dean slides his mouth off of Sam's fingers, feels a string of saliva suspend and break and hit his chin wetly. He feels dizzy. “You never said.”

“What would I have said, idiot?” Sam's voice is fond but his fingers rub hard across Dean's lips, press back in before Dean really gets a chance to fill his lungs. He hears his own muffled groan as Sam starts fucking them in and out.

Dean's beginning to suspect there's a blowjob on the cards. 

The thought of Sam's dick heavy and hot in his mouth, Sam's hand pressing on his head, nearly ruins him. Dean releases his fingers and tips his head back again on Sam's shoulder as Sam lets his dick go and roves his hands across Dean's body, down Dean's thighs, up his chest, leaving Dean straining up against nothing, cold air on him.

“Son of a bitch,” he gasps, and Sam ducks his head against Dean's neck. Dean feels him smile. 

“I can't even tell you Dean. How long you've made me crazy.”

_Liar_ , Dean wants to call him. Dean would have noticed. His whole life has been a study of Sam. This is what Dean wanted. Sam can't come in here at the end of the story and pretend it's his. This has been Dean's bane, part of him for so long he can't even trace the edges of it and now it's faded somehow, when he tries to reach for it it's polluted, and he's missing it, he's not even here for this, not where it counts. 

He wants it over with. It's too much, it's too false. He lifts his hand to touch himself and Sam grabs his wrists and bites him gently at the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“Let me.”

“Come on then,” Dean gasps, and Sam wraps a hand around him again, slick with precome, straight back into that whip-fast blinding pace, and he licks down the side of Dean's neck and starts sucking at his pulse, at the skin and structure of Dean's bared neck. 

“You're mine,” he says, and Dean shakes his head. “Yes, Dean.” He noses at Dean's ear and whispers. “I got you. You're mine.”

“Sam, I gotta--” 

“You feel so good.”

“Sam,” Dean says, helpless, burning. She's coming for him, darkness swelling at the edge of his vision. 

“This is it, Dean, right? This is how it's meant to be.” 

“Sam.”

“There's nothing else.”

Dean pants, his hips working mindlessly into Sam's merciless hand, the need coiling unbearably tight in his groin, every muscle of his body. He's been on the verge for so long.

“Say it.”

“Nothing else, Sammy,” and he could believe it, Sam's arm strong around him and his hand so good. There is no one else, nothing else for Dean, this is all he's ever been; something he's always known and he'll believe it again, he's so near to believing it. “Kinky bitch.”

“You love it.”

“No,” he says, and puts his hand back in Sam's hair, pulls him in for another kiss, as deep and hungry as he's ever kissed anybody. Keeps his eyes open. Couldn't be anyone else but his brother, sharp and smart and gorgeous, with his stubble rasping Dean's skin, the unrelenting line of his dick rocking up against Dean, all the friction he needs apparently; he loses it as Dean watches, forgets the kiss, mouth going slack on Dean's and a frown creasing his brow sweetly as he comes, two long bursts of wet at Dean's back, and the sound he makes and the fierce push of his hips and his grip on Dean's dick going torturously erratic pushes Dean over the edge too: he closes his eyes and comes, wrapped in his brother's limbs, breathing his brother's hot breath, and it feels so similar, so agonisingly similar, like being pulled out of his body into a wide white space, so close to nothingness, freedom, peace, so close he could cry. 

And he opens his eyes, and she's not there.

 

The end

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/concrit welcome.
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr link for those so inclined.](http://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/138695719906/all-thoughts-are-prey-to-some-beast-2660-words)


End file.
